On Valentine's Day, I set up a candlelit dinner and waited.

At 9 PM, my husband, Alfred Johnston, finally texted.

[Something came up at work. Don't wait for me.]

Then I saw her post.

[On a business trip with the CEO for Valentine's Day. Every hotel is fully booked—awkward...]

Vivian Bianca, his secretary.

Attached was a photo of a guy in a bathrobe, standing by a floor-to-ceiling window. The comments were all 'ooh, CEO's so hot and girl, you're in for a night.'

Vivian? Just dropped a smug emoji.

So that's what "something came up" meant—a romantic getaway with his secretary.

I screenshotted it, posted it on my own feed, and added a smiling emoji.

A second later, Alfred called, fuming. "Vivian was joking! Why are you so petty? She's young, not as calculating as you!"

I didn't let him finish. "Then let's get a divorce. That way, I won't have to care when you screw around and catch something."

At 2 AM, Alfred finally walked in.

We locked eyes. No one spoke.

His gaze flicked to the untouched candlelit dinner, but guilt? Nowhere to be found. Instead, he scoffed. "It's just a little late. What was the point of that post? You're always so passive-aggressive."

I didn't bother answering.

He tossed a designer shapewear set at me. "Vivian got this for you. Thoughtful, huh? She said if you still won't accept her apology, she'll delete her social media."

I glanced at the tag: 'Enhances Your Best Features.'

Yeah, Vivian knew exactly how to piss me off. I laughed.

Seeing me smile, Alfred thought I was over it and handed me his phone.

"She's being so considerate. Aren't you gonna thank her?"

I ignored him, eyes on the TV.

"Hannah, are you deaf?"

He yanked me up. I lost my balance, crashing to the floor.

Pain shot through my waist as I hit the edge of the table.

It hurt.

That old injury—seven years ago, from the fire. The one where I ran in to save him and got crushed by a falling beam.

I curled up, trembling.

Alfred hesitated. For a split second, guilt flickered across his face.

"I'll get the ointment."

I watched him walk away, wanting to stop him. But I didn't.

The ultrasound report had been sitting in the drawer for three days. The doctor warned me to stay calm in early pregnancy. No stress, no unnecessary meds—especially no topical ointments.

I was supposed to tell Alfred tonight. Valentine's Day. Our family was growing.

But now? What was the point?

He came back fast, digging through the first aid kit—then suddenly froze.

"The ointment is gone. Did I..." His voice trailed off. A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

Then it hit me. Vivian's post.

[He's such a sweetheart. I burned myself while cooking, and he immediately got the ointment for me.]

Before, I might've asked if he gave her my imported ointment. Pressed him for answers.

This time? I just laughed. Tired. Done.

"Forget it, Alfred. I'll go buy some."

He frowned. "How are you supposed to go out like this? Stay home—I'll—"

His phone rang. One glance, and he answered instantly.

"Vivian? What's wrong?"

Her tearful voice came through the speaker.

"Mr. Johnston, I'm drinking alone at a bar, feeling awful, and some strange men keep bothering me. They said if I don't leave with them, they'll kill me... Please, come save me..."

Alfred tossed the first aid kit onto the couch and shot up.

"Vivian, don't be scared. I'm on my way."

"Mr. Johnston, thank you... But maybe you shouldn't come. Your wife will get mad. I'll figure something out myself."

"She has no right to be mad!"

He cut me a cold look—me, still curled up on the floor—then hung up and rushed for the door.

"Alfred, wait!"

I called out to him.

He groaned. "Hannah, can you not make a scene?"

I pointed at the couch. "Your phone and wallet. How are you supposed to save her without them?"

They sat right next to the first aid kit.

Alfred hesitated, then grabbed them. "I'll take you to the hospital when I get back."

And just like that, he was gone.

Morning came. Alfred still hadn't.

The pain got worse. I finally called an ambulance.

While waiting, I scrolled through social media—and there it was. Vivian's latest post.

A whole sob story about being harassed at a bar and Alfred swooping in just in time. So brave, took a punch for her, she was so touched.

Attached? A picture of her, all teary-eyed, dabbing medicine on Alfred's face.

Caption:

[Love can overcome anything, and love is worth enduring anything.]

The comments? Filled with admiration.

[A man this handsome right in front of you, and you didn't make a move? Are you sure you're into men?]

[Exactly! If he were in front of me, I'd take care of his injuries too—just... in a different way.]

Vivian, smug as ever, replied:

[What's the rush? Sooner or later, he'll be mine.]

Then, someone casually dropped a video.

[Wow, what a coincidence! I saw you two that night!]

I pressed play.

Vivian, crying like some delicate little thing. Alfred, holding her close, shielding her, berating the so-called thugs.

His gaze was soft and tender.

And just like that, half a month ago came rushing back.

Alfred had invited a group to a club for drinks.

I got there early. No one else had arrived. He said he'd be there soon—something urgent at work.

Then George Lively walked in.

Alfred's business partner. Alfred always bragged about how George was some young, genius entrepreneur—secured two rounds of funding, company about to go public.

George's eyes swept over me as he moved closer.

"Hannah, you're beautiful. Even more than Alfred described."

I opened my mouth to speak—he clamped a hand over it.

"Alfred said you've got a great body. And that you're obedient."

He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me close. His breath was warm against my ear.

"Tell me, Hannah, just how obedient are you?"

I thrashed, desperate to break free.

Annoyed, he bit down on my neck. Hard.

When I didn't scream, he pressed a freshly lit cigar to my collarbone.

The burn seared through my skin. I shoved him with everything I had and bolted.

Ran straight into Alfred and Vivian in the lobby.

Alfred barely glanced at me. Kept his arm around Vivian and walked right past.

Vivian? She smirked. Gave me a little wave.

A dazzling yellow diamond necklace hung around her neck.

I knew that necklace.

Alfred had won it at a Sotheby's auction. Said it was my Valentine's gift.

Then he changed his mind. Said I was too fat to pull it off.

He didn't come home till midnight, reeking of alcohol.

"Hannah, what's your problem now? You left before anyone even showed up. When did you turn into such a spoiled brat?"

I said nothing. Just tilted my head, showing him the bite mark on my neck, the blistered burn on my collarbone.

His face paled. He rushed over, voice suddenly soft.

"Babe, does it hurt? What happened?"

I told him. Everything.

He scoffed.

"Do you even hear yourself? If you're gonna lie, at least make it believable. Why would George be interested in you? What, did you try to seduce him?"

Then he grabbed my hair and dragged me in front of the mirror.

A mess of a woman stared back. Tear-streaked. Swollen eyes.

"Look at yourself. Who would want you? Look at all that fat on your tummy—disgusting."

Then he walked off to the bedroom.

I stayed in the closet, crying till morning.

The next day, he bought me a diamond necklace. Called it an apology.

I thought I'd buried that night deep.

But then I saw that video in Vivian's comments.

Alfred's eyes.

Not disgust. Not ridicule.

Not like how he looked at me.

No—when he looked at Vivian, his eyes were soft.

The ambulance came, and the paramedics got me on the stretcher.

Lying in the ER with an IV in my arm, I shot a text to Phoebe.

[Phoebe, I'm getting a divorce.]

After they discharged me, I stayed home for a few days, thinking I'd finally get some peace. Then my phone started blowing up.

Drained, I answered. Alfred's voice was ice-cold.

"I'm picking you up for dinner."

Before I could respond, he hung up.

Might as well play nice until the divorce was final. I got dressed and went out.

The second he saw my face, something clicked in his expression.

"I forgot to grab your ointment. The restaurant's near the hospital—I'll take you there first."

"No need. It's been days. I'm fine."

He sighed, almost relieved. "Thought so. It's been seven years. If you're still hurting, it's all in your head."

I let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Seven years."

Seven years ago, I used everything I had to shove Alfred out of that burning building. A falling beam crushed me under the flames.

Three broken ribs. A fractured tailbone. Even now, the slightest bump sent pain shooting through me.

I never told him. Never wanted him to feel guilty. But the pain wasn't in my head—it was real.

If he had ever truly loved me, if he had ever cared... wouldn't he have noticed?

As Alfred drove, he started his usual excuses. "Vivian was shaken up after I saved her. I stayed a little longer to make sure she was okay. Don't overthink it."

I stared out the window. "I'm not. She's your secretary. Makes sense you'd stick around."

Apparently, my indifference hit a nerve. He suddenly slammed the brakes, and my earphones tumbled under the seat. I bent down to grab them—only to spot a swimsuit stuffed underneath.

A month ago, that would've wrecked me.

Now? I just picked it up and tossed it onto the back seat.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, that? Probably Vivian's. She must've left it after a swim lesson."

I just nodded and kept watching the scenery blur past.

At the restaurant, the couple at the next table kept sneaking glances our way. Eventually, the girl worked up the nerve to approach.

"Aren't you the CEO from Vivian's posts? Wow, you look even better in person!"

Alfred barely looked up. "You need something?"

She grinned, lowering her voice like we were in on some big secret. "So... are you and Vivian dating?"

Alfred glanced at me, still calmly eating, then turned back to her with a smile. "Yeah. Vivian and I are together."

A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen, but I didn't react.

The girl hesitated, frowning. "Then... who is she?"

Without missing a beat, Alfred said, "My maid."